dinner yonder, at th' Thornleigh Arms, soombry 'll allus get up an' call for th' 'ealth o' th' owdest member, an' then th' two owd lads 'ull get agate o' bargin' one another, an' Upton folks 'ull be backin' up Martin, an' th' Thornleigh folks 'ull be backin' up Robert, an' they mak' sich a din, they say as nobry can hear theirsel's speak." 

 The Doctor laughed loud and long. "Well, it must be a drawn battle this year," he said; "certainly Wainwright will not be able to go to the Club meeting unless he hops on one leg." 

 With a cheery nod he withdrew, chuckling all the way downstairs; Mrs. Tyrer duly escorted him to the door, and then climbed slowly up again, every step creaking beneath her weight. When she entered the sick room she found her husband drumming on the sheets with his fingers, and staring in front of him with a somewhat peculiar expression. 

 "Well," she cried, letting her ponderous person sink into the old-fashioned elbow chair that stood by the bedside, "owd Robert, yon, 'ull ha' to keep quiet for once! He'll noan be castin' up at thee this year as how 'tis." 

 Martin rolled his head from side to side, but said nothing. 

 "Ye'll be able to start fresh next Club Day," resumed his spouse cheerily. "Happen th' gout 'ull mak' an end on poor owd Robert first, though." 

 Martin looked at her with a startled air. "Happen it will," he assented doubtfully; "ah, it 'ud ha' been a fine thing if I could ha' stolen a march on th' owd lad this time! I never got the chance before, but theer he lays yon, fast by the leg! If I could ha' made shift to walk this year he could never ha' cotched me up—eh, I'd ha' had a gradely laugh at him." 

 "Well, well, ye'll happen ha' th' best on't another time," said Mrs. Tyrer soothingly. "Happen he'll noan be able to walk no more next year nor this—happen he'll noan be here! Dunnot thou go frettin' thysel' this road; nobry knows what's goin' to come about i' this world." 

 Martin's eyes travelled slowly from the ceiling to her face with a puzzled, discontented gaze. 

 "If th' owd lad dees afore next year it 'ull spile everything—'twouldn't be no satisfaction to walk oftener nor him if he were dead." 

 "Well, dunnot thou go frettin' thysel' as how 'tis," repeated his missus with a vague attempt at consolation. 

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